Colour
by terrified
Summary: A one-shot. Molly and Sherlock discuss particular emotions and their specific associations, in turn revealing one of the detective's quiet vulnerabilities.
_**A/N:** You don't know how happy I am that I've managed to find this precious pocket of time to devote to some writing. It's still not enough time to work on drafts for The Admirer but wow no words can describe how good it feels to write Sherlolly again. I will always, always, always love writing about our favourite pathologist and our favourite detective. For those kind and beautiful souls who've been writing to me and encouraging me from my own doldrums, I thank you with all my heart and dedicate this piece to you. x _

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**Colour**

"Oh. You're here." said Molly, closing the lab door behind her. The detective looked up briefly from his slides and gave her a nod, only to turn back to his microscope.

Molly breezed past Sherlock's seated figure as she settled into her own corner at the end of the long lab bench and placed her reports down. She began flipping through the files, getting more agitated as she looked through them. Occasionally, she sighed, rubbing her temples at every few pages. The reading and sighing continued when suddenly, she slapped the folder shut and muttered something fiercely but quietly to herself. Startled by her sudden movement and by what she had said, Sherlock eyed her carefully as she began tidying the folders and seemed to be getting ready to leave the room.

"What's happened?" he asked, pretending to return to his slides.  
"Nothing," she mumbled, obviously still agitated.  
"What have you had enough of?" he asked again, repeating to her the words she had muttered.

She paused, surprised that he had heard her, but then relaxed, knowing that it should _not_ have surprised her.

"Just… _this_ …" she said, gesturing to the folders in her arms.  
"You'll have to explain…"  
"You know I've been researching this for months…but all this red tape and my _stupid_ colleagues…" Molly began.  
"Ah, the lackadaisical egomaniac and the obsequious nymphomaniac…" he recalled with a smirk.  
"They're completely holding me back, Sherlock. It's just…"  
"Utterly unacceptable." he interjected.  
"Exactly. I feel so blue just thinking about it…"

It was his turn to pause as he pondered her expression.

"Blue?"  
"Yes. Down in the dumps, in the doldrums, upset, moody…you name it, I'm feeling it…"  
"But - _blue_?" he asked, curious.  
"Do you not speak English, Sherlock?" she asked, turning to him slightly amused, "It's a figure of speech."  
"I question its etymology. The choice of colour confounds me."  
"Something to do with rain or tears or something like that…" Molly said, turning back to head for the door, "Anyway, what does it matter? I'm headed back downstairs. I'll see you later…"

Sherlock got up quickly from the stool he was sitting on, startling Molly this time.

"Yes?" she asked, her hand poised to push open the lab door.  
"It isn't blue for me," he stated, causing Molly to raise an eyebrow in confusion.  
"Are you going to elaborate or—"  
"For me, it's yellow." he said, looking right at her.  
"Do you want me to ask why?" she asked, releasing her hand from the door and moving to face him properly.  
"Yes." he said, his bright eyes still focused on her.  
"All right. Why?" she asked, staring back.

A small smile appeared on Sherlock's face as he stepped back to return to his stool. He drummed his fingers quietly on his kneecaps before clasping his hands together and resting them on his lap.

"It's the colour of the dress you wore at John and Mary's wedding," he said quietly.  
"Sherlock…"  
"It reminds me of the fact that…at the time my best friend was getting married, you too were soon to be married," continued the detective. "And it wasn't to _me_."  
"You silly man," Molly whispered, smiling at him with gentle eyes.

Walking up to Sherlock, Molly put her folders down beside his microscope and took his face in her hands, planting a gentle kiss on his forehead, and then again on his lips.

"You _silly_ man," she repeated, smiling against his mouth.

It was Sherlock's turn to reciprocate, wrapping his arms slowly around her waist as he pulled her to him, pressing his mouth to hers as he savoured the nearness of the one he had almost lost. When they pulled away from each other, Molly placed a delicate hand against his face.

"I married you in the end, didn't I?" she said gently, running her thumb across his cheekbone.  
"Yes. You did." answered Sherlock, smiling warmly at her.  
"And how does that make you feel?" Molly asked.

The detective laughed softly and turned to kiss the hand that touched him.

"No colours in the world could describe that," answered Sherlock.  
"Good," said Molly, "So forget the yellow, and remember _me_ , the one who became _your_ wife, and no one else's. Can you do that, Mr Holmes?"

A laugh escaped the detective as stood up to hold her tightly.

"Yes, I can, Mrs Holmes," he answered, smiling against her hair, "Yes, I can."

 **END**


End file.
